“My novel? I haven’t a spare minute,” replied Alice without a trace of irony. “Besides, what would I write about?”
“A girl named Alice Winter.”
“Who would want to read a book about me?”
“Everyone, I imagine.”
She rolled those liquid blue eyes of hers. “It can be a crashing bore, you know.”
“The Royal Enclosure at Ascot?”
“All of it, Pheebs. It’s the same bloody crowd night after night with a slightly different seating arrangement. Your life is far more interesting than mine.” Lowering her voice, she added, “All you need now is a husband.”
“Are we going to have this conversation again?”
“You’ll be forty soon.”
“I realize that.”
Phoebe was the oldest of the foursome and thus would be the first to cross the dreaded threshold. She was also the only one yet to wed. Sophie and Ella were married to equally successful men and both had the requisite two children, though Ella was carrying on a torrid affair with a man from a rival bank. Alice had Edward, of course, butthey were childless. At moments like this, Phoebe thought it was for the best. Alice would make a terrible mother.
“Are you still seeing what’s-his-name?” she asked drowsily.
“Jean-Marc?” He was a doctor from Médecins Sans Frontières whom Phoebe had met in Sierra Leone. For two years they had been involved in an on-again, off-again relationship. Phoebe informed Alice that she and Jean-Marc were currently off-again.
“Perhaps I can introduce you to someone.”
“I doubt any of your posh friends would have much interest in someone like me.”
“It wouldn’t hurt if you occasionally tried to enjoy yourself.” Alice trailed a fingertip over the surface of the pool. “Incredible, isn’t it?”
“This house?”
“It’s afinca, Pheebs.”
“It must have cost a fortune.”
“Must’ve,” agreed Alice, and rolled onto her back. Phoebe read her P. D. James novel for a few minutes more but soon lost interest. Alice had spoiled the ending.
Phoebe had read not long ago that “The Second Coming” was the twentieth century’s most frequently quoted poem, especially the bit about things falling apart. Yeats had been writing about a world in crisis, an approaching age of disorder, but Phoebe thought his prophetic words could be applied to long-standing friendships as well. Eventually the center cannot hold. Sooner or later some revelation is at hand. For Phoebe it occurred that evening when she attempted to pay the check at a pricey beachside restaurant on the eastern side of the island. Alice, who had drunk more wine than usual, placed herblack credit card on the tray with a crooked smirk and said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Pheebs.” Then she extended an arm and snapped a selfie. The flash of the phone’s camera was like a lightning strike.
Ordinarily Phoebe overlooked Alice’s childish social media habit, but not tonight. She too had drunk an extra glass of albariño with dinner. The time had come for an intervention.
“Must you always do that?” she asked.
“You wouldn’t understand, Pheebs.”
“Who would?”
“It’s about personal branding.”
“Sounds painful.”
Alice’s gaze was as pitiless as the sun. “Fuck you, Pheebs.”
Things went from bad to worse later that evening at a nightclub appropriately called Precipice. Phoebe declared it atrocious, and Alice predictably took offense. What followed was their worst quarrel since the night Phoebe had nearly pushed Alice off the Magdalen Bridge. The row intensified during the drive back to the villa and concluded with slammed bedroom doors and a final exchange of vulgarities. Sophie the lawyer attempted to negotiate a settlement, but Ella, perhaps sensing a break was inevitable, kept to a safe distance. Phoebe had no doubt that Ella had already chosen sides.
Morning brought a brief truce, but only because Alice left the villa to do a bit of sightseeing, or so she said. It was early evening when she finally returned. She brushed past Phoebe as though she were invisible and went to her room to dress for dinner. Sophie engaged in a few minutes of shuttle diplomacy to determine whether a rapprochement was possible, but Alice made it clear she had no interest in making peace. Phoebe defused the situation by announcing that she would be dining alone at the villa. The chef made her coq au vin, which she consumed while reading the rest of her novel. The perfect eveningwas spoiled by the photograph that appeared on Alice’s Instagram account shortly before midnight. The caption might have readFuck you, Pheebs.
